


the miracle laundromat

by cirrus (themorninglark)



Series: SASO 2017 [9]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Challenge: Sports Anime Shipping Olympics | SASO 2017, M/M, Mundane Magic, kuroko writes sometimes, liminal laundromat au, there is pie because why not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 11:24:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11160879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themorninglark/pseuds/cirrus
Summary: In which Kise and Kuroko meet over irregular laundry days, Akashi bakes pie, and the dryer makes your clothes smell like vanilla shakes.





	the miracle laundromat

**Author's Note:**

> Written for SASO 2017 Bonus Round 1: AUs | [originally posted here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21522.html?thread=11505426#cmt11505426)

“I’m Kise Ryouta,” says the stranger, “and the red guy over there told me you’d show me how to use the machines.”

Kuroko does not look up. It’s not until he hears a restless shuffling, the sound of an impatient throat clearing, that he realises Kise Ryouta is speaking to him.

“Oh,” he murmurs, and closes his notebook.

The fraying pages flutter as they fall, one by one. They stir up a tiny hurricane between his fingers that he could slip into his pocket, carry around with him for days like this, when the wind is still and the crickets are a hazy rhapsody.

“Did he?” asks Kuroko, his gaze flicking towards the back of the laundromat, where Akashi sits and pretends not to hear him. He is thumbing through a dog-eared magazine, its contents as much a mystery from this distance as Akashi himself is.

Kise nods, his eyes hopeful.

Kuroko stands up and dusts the lint off his pants. “Okay. I understand.”

 

* * *

 

Later that night, when they are the only ones who remain, Akashi offers Kuroko a slice of pie that he made himself. It’s apple, just a little on the tart side, light on the cinnamon. It tastes like the ripening of summer into a rich crimson autumn.

He takes his time to nibble at the flaky crust. The smell of coffee brewing, dark and heady, comes wafting through the laundromat from the pantry behind Akashi’s office. On the wall, the old wind-up clock ticks past a quiet three AM.

“He saw me,” Kuroko says to Akashi.

Akashi uses a napkin to wipe his fingers. “So I noticed.”

 

* * *

 

Kuroko’s favourite dryer is the one second from the left, on the bottom row. It’s a little bit fussy when the weather is cold, but on temperate days like this, it hums along fine.

“It makes your clothes smell like vanilla shakes,” he tells Kise.

Kise grabs a hoodie and sniffs it. He laughs. “You’re right.”

When Kise laughs, the laundromat brightens. The skylight above them glows with a sun-kissed bravado, and even Akashi glances upward, for a moment. Kuroko feels the warmth on his cheek, a pleasant tingling all the way down to his toes.

He helps Kise empty his clothes out into a basket. It takes ages, because Kise keeps stopping to marvel at every little thing.

“This sock smells like _chocolate sprinkles_!”

Kuroko smiles. “The dryer likes you.”

 

* * *

 

On days when the washing machines all feel lazy and decide to take two hours rather than one, Kuroko explains, there is little they can do about it but be patient. Kise flops down in a chair and stretches his arms overhead, letting out a long, slow yawn. Even in a position of relative repose, he can’t stay still; he’s cracking his neck, tapping his toes to a jaunty imaginary beat.

Kuroko puts away his notebook and goes to rummage through the lost and found. It’s not a particularly inspiring selection of distractions.

“I guess we can play Connect 4,” he offers.

Kise perks up. “I’ve never played Connect 4 before.”

“It’s like _gomoku_ , but easier. I’ll teach you,” says Kuroko, blowing the dust off the faded box as he opens it to check its contents. Curiously, all the pieces are still there, and some look newer than the box itself. When he shows it to Akashi with a questioning look, Akashi shrugs without comment and returns to his newspaper.

It takes Kuroko three minutes to set up the grid and explain the rules, ten minutes to beat Kise in their first couple of games, and two and a half minutes to lose resoundingly in their next, and their next after that.

Kuroko realises something. “You're copying my strategy.”

Kise flashes him a knowing grin. He doesn’t look in the least sheepish about it, either.

“You caught me, Kurokocchi.”

“It’s not that there’s anything wrong with that, Kise-kun,” Kuroko hastens to clarify. “It’s just that most people can’t.”

“Huh? What do you mean, _can’t_?”

“Most people don’t notice me,” Kuroko murmurs. “Let alone what I’m doing.”

He slips another red disc down the grid. Kise, of course, took yellow. Kuroko watches as he picks up his next piece, dances it deftly across his knuckles; watches the slight curve on those lips, a lingering smile that would taste like lemonade in his mouth, fizzy and refreshing.

“That’s silly,” Kise declares, and makes his move.

 

* * *

 

They have their regulars at the laundromat. Kuroko, for one, practically lives here. There is something soothing about the sheer mundanity of it, the rhythmic whirr of the washers and dryers, the breezy scent of fabric softener. Sometimes, of vanilla shakes, sometimes, of crunchy leaves and long, dusty nights.

Kuroko has come to learn that Aomine does his laundry on Sundays because that’s when Momoi kicks him out of the house on his errands, that Midorima appears like clockwork on Wednesday nights, unless the _Oha Asa_ says it’s an unlucky day for cleaning. But Kise, for a regular, is as irregular as they come.

“Kise-kun doesn’t seem to have a laundry day,” he observes to Akashi one afternoon, over another slice of pie. His notebook’s open in front of him, the page an empty canvas of faintly ruled lines. “He just comes in whenever he likes.”

“That’s probably because his work schedule is so unpredictable,” says Akashi.

“His work schedule?”

“Mmm.” Akashi takes a sip of coffee. He reaches under the counter, pulls out a familiar-looking magazine, and slides it over to Kuroko.

“I was reading this, and then. He walked in.”

Kuroko pushes his notebook aside and picks up the magazine. It’s Kise on the front cover, in a suit, one hand on the knot of his tie. His chin’s tipped up so the light catches the glint on his earring, the fine dip and curve of his neck, and there’s the barest hint of an inhale caught between his parted lips, like he is about to whisper a secret only for your ears.

Kuroko finishes his pie. Behind him, his dryer spins to a slow halt. He slides lightly off his stool, closes the magazine and hands it back to Akashi.

“That’s not the real Kise-kun,” he says with confidence, and goes to retrieve his clothes.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, I’ve always wondered something. Why is this place called the _Miracle Laundromat_? Is it because it makes all your clothes smell _amazing_? Smell this!”

Kuroko obediently leans forward to sniff at the T-shirt Kise holds out to him.

“Smells like _yuzu_. It’s nice.”

Kise beams, shakes out the T-shirt and tosses it over his shoulder into his basket.

Kuroko glances over to the counter, but Akashi’s nowhere to be seen. He does that, disappearing at the most convenient and inconvenient of moments; this one could go either way.

“Strange things happen here,” Kuroko says, hands clasped in his lap. “And I guess you can call them miracles. Small ones. But that’s not the reason... it’s because this place attracts miracles, like you and everyone else who comes here. Akashi knows.”

“Hmmm." There's a long pause. Kise continues to rummage through the dryer, and after a moment, Kuroko sees him nod. "Okay. I get it.”

Kise Ryouta, thinks Kuroko, takes very well to being called a miracle. He supposes this is not anything to be surprised at.

“That’s why you’re always here, Kurokocchi! Isn’t it?”

“I’m the exception,” Kuroko murmurs. “A shadow to all of you.”

Kise dumps all the rest of his clothes out in a heap, stands up and whirls around, hands squarely on his hips as he shoots Kuroko a pointed glare through keen eyes. It is in moments like this, when he is no longer startled, that Kuroko understands: he's let himself grow used to this. Used to Kise's eyes on him, to Kise's messes, to the fullness of his heart on his sleeve. The empty notebook in his bag contains a tiny universe of feelings and beliefs that he cannot put into words.

In his pocket, the hurricane stirs.

Kise lets out a sigh that turns into a helpless chuckle. “I’m hurt, you know. Do you think I spend all my off days here because I love doing laundry?”

“I know you hate doing laundry,” says Kuroko. “Maybe you just have that many clothes.”

“I do not! You _know_ all my clothes by now!”

“And you have a lot of them, Kise-kun. Do you really need five identical white V-necks?”

Kise sputters for a moment and scoffs indignantly. Kuroko smiles at the sight.

The skylight spills gold across the floor, sunspots dancing on the tips of his sneakers and Kise’s toes, in the cracks of the tiles, and as Kuroko watches their bright passage, he notices all the places where their shadows touch, melt into each other.

 

* * *

 

“By the way, Kise-kun," Kuroko adds, "it's not that you're a miracle because you're pretty."

Kise sits down next to Kuroko, nudges him with his shoulder and a camera-ready wink that would have made anyone else blush. "Do you really think I'm pretty?"

Kuroko shrugs. It's a matter of fact, not his opinion.

"You're a miracle because you saw me," he says.

Kise stretches out his long legs, leans over to take a shameless bite from Kuroko’s slice of pie, and smiles. This one’s not for the cameras. There are stray crumbs sticking to the corner of Kise’s mouth, and a spot where his pale pink lip gloss is just a little smudged.

Reality, thinks Kuroko, isn’t always what the rest of the world sees.

"Well," Kise says, "you saw me too."


End file.
